


Rabbits An' Dingoes

by VitaLupum



Category: Team Fortress 2
Genre: Angst, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-11
Updated: 2013-06-11
Packaged: 2017-12-14 16:11:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 542
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/838813
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VitaLupum/pseuds/VitaLupum
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's never your fault. (I made up Sniper's name. And his parents' names too.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rabbits An' Dingoes

"He's a bloody psychopath!"

"He's  _your son_!"

The boy lay on the bed, staring at the ceiling. Every so often, the shouting from downstairs would echo up to him through the thin floors, and he would roll over and clamp his hands to his ears. His parents' fighting was a bad thing. The fact that it was his fault was terrible.

"You encouraged him, Eustace. You took him to all those rifle safety meetin's, you let him skip school to spend days off on his own."

"I was encouraging a hobby!" Silence and the pacing of feet. "I thought that maybe he'd get sick of it. Back when it was just rabbits an' dingoes."

The boy realised his aviators were steaming up, and pulled them off, wiping them on his grubby white shirt. No way was he going to cry. Not now. Not after everything.

"An' now he's getting paid to do it!" There was a sob, and he rolled into a ball, hating himself. His father could think what he liked, but his mother was the one person he would never hurt. Now, he had.

"He's not killed anyone, Muriel! If he did, I'd drive him to the police myself!"

"What do you think 'ranch security' means?" Another sob and the boy pulled his hat over his face. "He is being paid to shoot poachers!" There was a pause.

"But it is  _not my fault_!"

"It's never your fault," the boy growled under his breath. "You bought my gun, Dad. You bought my first gun, you bought my van, you took me shootin', you took me to meets, an' yet it ain't your fault." Tears were beginning to trickle down his cheeks, tears of hot anger.

"You're his mother, ain't ya? You're supposed to be giving him all the soft side of his personality! All that 'thou shalt not kill' crap you an' yer sister used t'drill into him on Sunday morning!"

"It's not my fault either!"

The boy stood up, and as soon as his feet hit the dusty wooden floor the shouting stopped. He knelt down, reached under his bed and pulled out his rifle. He looked over the Parker-Hale M82. It was his, the only thing in his life that was steady and reliable and didn't change its goddamn mind every ten seconds. He pulled his hat onto his head, pushed his aviators up his nose, and slunk downstairs.

"Hello, Jackson," his mother said nervously. "Are you off out?"

"Goin' to work," Jackson muttered, and laid the rifle down gently on the counter. "Dunno when I'll be back."

"Shootin' dingoes?" his old man said jovially, and Jackson looked up sharply. "Make sure you bag 'em good, son." There was something in his eyes, a look of alien remoteness, and Jackson felt his fist itch. The tears running down his mother's cheeks and his own guilt did nothing to help. He snatched up the rifle again and strode out. His campervan was waiting in the drive. He wondered, not for the first time, if he was going to drive it back.

"Son?" his mother's voice quavered, and he turned. She stood in the doorway. "Take… take care."

"Don't worry, mum," Jackson said dully. "It's not your fault."

Probably not.


End file.
